Jiu-Jitsu and the Art of Walking Again

We all began the same way—flat on our backs, discovering the world one sensation at a time. Each of us embarked on that first great journey of consciousness: realizing that the chubby intruder with five little digits floating in our field of vision was, in fact, our own hand. That we controlled it. That it was us.

This instinctual learning experience continued as we catalogued every movement and sound emanating from what would eventually become our body. With no strength to rely on, no coordination to compensate with, we found, with time, the purest form of each movement. Our progress, unhampered by shortcuts, flowed at nature's perfect pace. Each milestone achieved through pure discovery of what worked, what moved us forward.

Lying on our backs, we could see the world, yes—but only partially, only fragmentally. To gain a new perspective required combining individual components together, and learning to roll to our stomachs. Every new angle unlocked required us to build and strengthen different muscle groups, preparing us for future movements yet to be discovered.

Eventually, we grew tired of tasting our blanket. Our eyes would move first, then our head would follow—lifting slightly, lowering back to the floor, lifting again, lowering again. We persisted until we could finally hold up our own head. Then came the fingers, weirdly curled when we didn't want them to be, so we opened and closed them obsessively, grasping at everything within reach until we could use them to establish the base needed to lock out our elbows and lift our chest off the ground.

Shakily, we held ourselves up, giggling as the adults—those masters of movement who seemed to possess all the freedom in the world—celebrated our achievement. Next came the gathering of the knees beneath us, pressing toes to earth, finding that first wobbly rise to vertical. Then, at last, those precious first steps—uncertain but unstoppable.

Walking.

The Second Journey

Recently, I shared this reflection with my students: that in learning jiu jitsu, they were essentially learning to walk again. It's an experience we've all been through, learned from, but one whose details have been lost to time. Perhaps this is merciful—to recall every little detail from our past would be a source of confusion, pain, and fear. Our brains seem to tuck away what they deem unnecessary into the deeper recesses of our consciousness.

Yet ironically, this might be the one experience worth remembering—proof that we can master complex movements through pure discovery, unburdened by doubt.

As adults stepping onto the mats for the first time, we can’t help but to arrive burdened, with the nasty little habit of assigning difficulty to things before we try them. Unlike our first journey, we now approach learning with our hard-won attributes - strength, flexibility, athleticism, collected experience, and ego - thinking these advantages will speed our progress. Yet these very 'advantages' often become barriers, tempting us to force movements rather than understand them, to compensate rather than learn. We rush to use what we have rather than discover what we need, ironically slowing the very progress we're trying to accelerate.

The Missing Link

Many jiu jitsu instructors begin by teaching positional strategies or techniques, but in doing so, they miss something fundamental: the opportunity to reconnect their students with the natural way, the source of all movement. Techniques aren't the beginning—they're the possibilities that emerge from a proper foundation of base, posture, and connection to oneself. Just like walking: we do it every day without thought, but rarely consider the incredible progression of skills we had to master before taking those first steps.

This is where our adult consciousness becomes both blessing and curse. We're plagued by self-consciousness, that fear of looking silly, of appearing awkward, of being judged. We compare ourselves to others, forgetting that a baby learning to walk never once looked at another baby and felt inadequate. Our very awareness of ourselves interferes with our ability to learn naturally, to do things as they arise rather than planning three moves ahead.

In our eagerness to excel, we often try to understand more than we're ready for. We create artificial pathways, confusing ourselves with complexity when simplicity would serve us better. We're uncomfortable with being uncomfortable, so we grasp for more techniques, more attributes, more answers—forgetting that mastery comes not from knowing everything at once, but from fully inhabiting each stage of the journey.

The frustration in jiu jitsu emerges when we sense our movements aren't quite right, yet we stubbornly resist returning to our original, natural patterns of movement. Our earliest lessons were our purest—yet they're often the hardest to access. This time though, with a little practice we can be aware enough to appreciate the journey back to them.

And just like before, each rediscovered movement opens up new worlds of possibility—if we can just remember that we once knew how to learn without limits, how to move without doubt, how to trust in the pure wisdom of our first steps.